


an old blue shirt and cold toast

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aromantic Dean, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7017568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s never gonna throw out the shirt, and you can call him a sentimental old sap all you like, he kind of is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an old blue shirt and cold toast

They’re about the same size. Dean is just a little taller and a little broader. But Cas wears his clothes all the time anyway; most of the stuff the guy had when they moved in was baggy and old and ill-fitting. If Dean really needs to - ‘cause honestly, two guys in their young twenties, yeah they don’t make it to the laundromat regularly - he can squeeze into Cas’ clothes too.

So it’s not really uncommon to see Cas wandering around Sunday morning in an open flannel shirt, the soft-worn blue one that brings out his eyes and, god, Dean has actually told him that. He’s not wearing any pants, shuffles around with the shirt falling off his shoulders as he mutters at the coffee pot in their kitchen, hair flat on one side of his head and puffed out on the other.

It’s a gray day outside, overcast, the sound of the city a constant drone through the open window. Traffic, pedestrians, the occasional siren. The kitchen view overlooks the front of their apartment complex, the street below two lane, the building across is a cell phone shop at the bottom and more apartments above. It’s not much to see.

The best sight is Cas, lean muscle of his legs flexing when he goes up on the tips of his toes to reach Dean’s favorite mug in the top cupboard, set it down next to his own. The mug Dean likes has cats on it, but it’s the perfect size for his hands and holding just the right amount of coffee.

The smell of dark roast coffee brewing perks him up, rubbing his bleary eyes in the doorway and stretching. At least Dean pulled on boxers, morning erection still tenting the front, but it’s too muggy for a shirt. He supposes they’re both dressed about the same amount, even if Dean gives Cas shit for going pants-less around the apartment - seriously what if the fire alarm goes off.

Scratching his belly, Dean boxes Cas in against the counter in the narrow space of the galley kitchen that runs between the dining room and front room. Curling an arm around Cas’ waist, Dean noses at his neck. The toaster on the counter beside them smells like the burning crumbs in the bottom of the tray. Cas is a little sour-stale with sweat, a little lingering of Dean’s cologne from the collar of his shirt. His body loosens in Dean’s holds, leans back. The stubble on his jaw is rough as Dean kisses down his neck.

Splaying his hands over Cas’ belly, both arms wrapped around him, Dean’s old shirt is soft against his chest where he presses along Cas’ back.

If you were to hold the shirt up to the light, you could see through it.

Dean’s never gonna throw it out. He was wearing this shirt on the worst night of his life. The best night of his life. He’d had too much to drink after getting the news of his dad’s death - heart attack - and he shouldn’t have been driving, especially not in the heavy rain, and even though it wasn’t too bad as accidents went because he walked away from it, he had to leave Baby in a ditch and trudge down the country road in the dark and alone. He’d forgotten his jacket - his dad’s leather jacket - at the bar. Blue plaid shirt plastered to his back. Headlights behind him and Dean didn’t think the stranger’d stop for a drunk in the rain at three a.m. Blue eyes from inside the car, window rolled down. Dean was a mess.

Dean’s never gonna throw out the shirt, and you can call him a sentimental old sap all you like, he kind of is. They’d had a rocky relationship from the start, pretty much just fell in bed together, Dean used him to fuck away the grief. It wasn’t really fair and it wasn’t really nice. But when Cas had decided to follow a job opportunity to the city, Dean packed up and followed him. Although he had picked up his dad’s leather jacket from the bar after that night, it got lost somewhere in the move. The blue plaid shirt made it.

The toaster pops and startles Cas, who grumbles and pinches the hot toast in his hand to put on a plate sitting out.

Dean still doesn’t let him go. Breathes in the familiar scent of breakfast and mornings with a sleepy Cas in his arms, rocks gently against his body.

“Mornin’ sweetheart.”

Cas sighs and leans back against Dean’s hold after reaching for the butter on the counter.

“You wanna come back to bed for ten minutes?”

The erection Dean’s rubbing against the small of his back is a pretty obvious reason.

“The toast will get cold.” Cas murmurs around a yawn.

“I’ll eat the cold toast and make you more.”

Scratching blunt nails through the curly hair at the base of Cas’ dick, Dean palms over his semi and teases him, kisses the spot under his ear that makes him shiver. It’s a Sunday and they should have all the lazy morning sex they want, the one day of the week they both have off work together. Cas places his hands over Dean’s, drags up his forearms, pats once before moving to shove the plate of toast away. The coffee pot is still full but it’ll keep itself warm. Cas turns around in his hold and catches Dean’s face in both hands to pull him down for a kiss.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Dean mumbles against his mouth.

Dragging Cas back to their single bedroom, mis-matched second hand furniture, wildly colorful sheets and curtains that Cas picked out, Dean slowly slides his own shirt off Cas’ arms. Shoving his boxers down, he realizes they’re Cas’ boxers. He hadn’t noticed. They share pretty much everything, anymore.

Sprawling on the bed, Cas yawns against the back of his hand and reaches out to grab Dean’s arm, tug him closer. It’s a gray, dull day but it’s bright in their bedroom. It’s taken Dean a while to realize that the pulsing warmth in his chest when Cas is near is something not entirely friendly affection or just lust. He’s pretty sure he knows what it’s supposed to be called, but he’s never really felt like this before and it’s something big, something almost frightening.

Without even realizing, Cas soothes him, wraps around him tight and kisses the plane of Dean’s chest while Dean reaches for the nightstand. Keeps him close and it’s so, so easy. Pressing into Cas, bodies moving slowly against each other, that bright burning affection expands through him, and Dean swears sometimes he can feel it coming off Cas in waves too.

He’s not gonna put a name to it, not yet.

Dean’ll carry it with him, guard it, like that old blue shirt and reminders he holds onto. Play it close to the chest. He’s pretty sure Cas knows anyway, and probably has for a while too. Dean’s glad the guy is patient, ‘cause it takes him a while to catch on to these sorts of things.


End file.
